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‘Dear Lady Jardine.’ Mrs Highton smiled affectionately. ‘I do miss her now she has moved to Nottinghamshire.’
‘Lord Weston’s sister Lady Jardine lives in Nottinghamshire?’ Decima repeated blankly. She could feel the sickening certainty taking hold of her stomach. Suddenly she wished she had not eaten breakfast. It could not be a coincidence. There could not be two Lady Jardines in Nottinghamshire who ha
d both tried to introduce an eligible brother to someone’s spinster sister in the week before New Year. She was the lady ‘at her last prayers’ from whom Adam had run.
‘Yes, they have recently moved there,’ Adam said. ‘Have you met them? I have just realised I never asked you where you had come from, the day we met in the snow. Had you come from Nottinghamshire?’
‘No.’ Her friend Henry always said that if one was going to tell a lie, it might as well be a wholehearted one. ‘No, Leicestershire. I regret I have not had the pleasure of Lady Jardine’s acquaintance.’
She was saved by the footman entering. ‘Miss Ross’s carriage has arrived, my lord. I have brought in your baggage that was left with it. Everything appears to be in order.’
Decima rose to her feet. ‘Then I must be on my way. Thank you so much, Lord Weston, for rescuing me from a most uncomfortable predicament. If you will excuse me, I must just go and thank Mrs Chitty.’ She exchanged farewells with Adam’s guests and escaped into the kitchen where Pru was organising the footman.
‘All those bags inside the carriage, I don’t want my lady’s things getting cold and damp…Miss Dessy, I’ll just run up and get our cloaks.’
Her head was still buzzing with shock and emotion, but Decima made herself speak pleasantly to the housekeeper. ‘You must be Mrs Chitty. I have to thank you for your discretion, and also for your wonderfully well-stocked stillroom. I do trust we have not wreaked too much havoc with your domestic arrangements.’
‘I’m only too glad it was of help, ma’am.’ Mrs Chitty’s eyes were regarding Decima with sharp intelligence, but her voice was entirely respectful as she added, ‘I’m sure his lordship took great care of you.’
‘Will you allow me to escort you to the front door, Miss Ross?’ It was Adam, entering soundlessly behind her.
Somehow Decima managed to turn round and look at him. This man—the man she had laughed with, worried with, almost lost her virtue to—this man was the one who had fled his sister’s house rather than meet her and exchange a few stilted pleasantries. And who, all unknowing, mocked her to his friends.
‘I do not stand on ceremony, Lord Weston,’ she replied coolly. ‘The back door will do very well.’ Where had that girl got to? ‘Mrs Chitty, would you be so very kind as to find what has delayed my dresser?’
As the housekeeper bustled off, Decima held out her hand. ‘My thanks once more, Lord Weston. I shudder to think what several days cooped up in the Red Cock would have been like, or the effect upon Pru’s health. I was most fortunate indeed to have been rescued by you. Please give Bates my best wishes for a speedy recovery.’
He ignored her careful formality. ‘You are angry with me; I should not have spoken so lightly of my sister’s schemes and my reaction to them.’
‘Not at all, and I must apologise for my intemperate response. You simply chanced upon one of my prejudices, my lord. I feel for the lady in the case; those of us who do not regard the married state as the be-all and end-all of existence must support each other, do you not agree? Ah, Pru, there you are.’ The maid was pink-faced, clutching the cloaks bundled together.
‘Goodbye, Decima.’ Adam caught her hand in his, the warmth of his grasp penetrating her winter gloves with ease. ‘I wish we had been able to talk together longer—there are things I would have wished to say.’
It was difficult to hold his gaze. Decima felt her own eyes waver and then fall before his. ‘Nothing of any import, I trust. Now, I really must go. Goodbye.’
For a second she thought he was going to bend and kiss her, but Mrs Chitty came in, and Pru was holding out her cloak, and the moment was gone.
In the yard the snow had turned to muddy slush and to one side all that remained of their snowman was a pile of snow with an incongruous carrot sticking out of it and a battered tricorne perched on the top.
Decima let the postilion assist them into the carriage, only turning to look at Adam when they were settled with the rugs over their knees. He was standing in the snow, his expression unfathomable as it rested on her. Did he feel as wretched as she that their days of intimacy and informality had ended in this chilly, formal farewell?
She raised her hand as the carriage began to move and Adam lifted his in acknowledgement. Did he stand looking after her, or did he turn at once on his heel and go back to the safe familiarity of his friends, putting this whole bizarre episode out of his mind?
Blankly she stared out of the window onto sodden fields and melting drifts as the carriage made its way through the lanes, onto the turnpike road and headed east. Would they reach Swaffham, and home, today? It would be a long journey, and all would depend on how bad the roads were and how good the horses they obtained at the changes. There were excellent inns along the way—that was not a problem—but Decima ached now for this journey to be over and for the safety of her own room, her own bed, her old life. Her old innocence.
Their luck held, with the roads in a reasonable state and horses that held a good pace. Decima was just thinking that at this rate they could count on taking a late luncheon at Wisbech, when something made her glance across at Pru.
The maid looked woebegone, huddled in her corner, her nose pink and one large tear running down her plump cheek.
‘Oh, Pru! Are you feeling poorly? I should never have dragged you out today,’ she exclaimed remorsefully. ‘I will pull the check string and tell the men to stop at the next respectable inn we come to.’
Pru gulped and shook her head. ‘It’s not that, Miss Dessy, I feel fine, honestly I do. I’m nice and warm and the carriage is ever so comfortable.’
‘Then whatever is it?’ Decima changed seats so she could sit beside Pru and feel her forehead. Quite normal. ‘Tell me, Pru, we will sort it out, whatever it is.’ She took the maid’s hand and patted it.
‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Dessy.’ Pru scrabbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose miserably. ‘It’s just foolishness.’
‘Of course there is something to be done, Pru. I refuse to believe there is not, whatever the problem. Now tell me.’
